Serene
by sydneysages
Summary: She never stopped caring about Dylan Keogh, despite what she said. And, at the moment, she can't quite get him out of her mind. /SamDylan overtures.


**Set a few weeks after the practically singular scene of Sam and Dylan we've had in S32, but I can't remember really what happened in those episodes so it's just after then but before now**

* * *

Biting her lip, Sam leans her head against her hand, elbow propped up in the open window, and stares into the distance. No matter how hard she's tried, she hasn't been able to clear her head in the last few weeks; there's always been something clouding the otherwise perfect mental serenity she prefers to keep. Something blocking her from closing her mind, even for a second, to let her shut down and focus on something else. _Anything_ other than him.

Even when she's asleep, she's haunted by the occasional whisper of Dylan Keogh. Some nights, he takes over completely, and she relives that awful GMC hearing, when her infidelity was laid bare for all to see. Others, she remembers the happy days, envisioning the path from King's College Hospital to almost (but not quite) that final day with only the positive memories. Of Dylan laughing, of her singing, of their little flat in the centre of town which was the perfect size for them at one point.

Other nights still, her dreams are completely unrelated, but the thought of Dylan lingers, seemingly omnipresent in her mind. It's those nights which make her sick of the sight of her ex-husband and her subconscious mind's apparently ability to make everything about him.

Which it used to be. But that was a long time ago, long before Holby or Tom. In a time when she apparently didn't know Dylan well enough to know he had a drinking problem.

 _That's it_. That's the issue, she thinks. She can't get him out of her head because she can't quite process it. How did she live with him, be married to him, for years – and then work with him – without knowing his issue with alcohol? Was he good at keeping secrets from her, even at the start? Or was she never really there, even when she thought she was?

"Alright, day-dreamer!" Iain's voice rouses her and brings her back to the present, to ambulance 3006 and her position in the driver's seat. "We're on a ham and pineapple pizza today, with spiced chips."

Sam rolls her eyes. "Just because you won one bet doesn't mean that you can make me put this atrocity in my mouth."

"A deal's a deal, Sam Nicholls," Iain responds, ripping a piece of pizza off and stuffing it into his mouth. "You're the one who guessed that we'd have double the number of patients than we actually did. I mean seriously, twenty four patients? Did you think every single one would have a sprained wrist or something?"

" _Fine_ ," Sam says, recognising that, this time, she's on the losing side. "Hand it over then, Iain. I don't want to starve."

"What were you thinking about anyway?" Iain asks, curiously pensive as he hands Sam the pizza. Or, at least that's what she thinks he says, around the full slice he's just shoved into his mouth.

"Nothing," Sam replies, hearing herself just how distant her voice sounds. "It doesn't matter, anyway. Not anymore."

Something about her tone indicates to Iain that, just this once, he needs to leave it and he thankfully does.

But that doesn't mean that she can switch her brain off, not yet anyway.

* * *

…

As soon as her shift ends, Sam grabs her bag out of her locker and heads out of the ambulance station in the general direction of the Emergency Department.

"Someone's keen to dash off," Iain says, almost out of breath as he jogs to catch up with her. "Something I said?"

Smiling despite herself, Sam casts a furtive glance at her colleague. Iain Dean has always been a thorn in her side, a symbol of her greatest regret and yet her greatest strength. "Nah, just thought I'd get myself some mature friends who don't think that pineapple belongs on a pizza," she jokes, tucking her coat around her tightly, surprisingly cold despite the temperature.

"Not sure you'll find anyone like that around _here_ ," he replies. "Pub?"

"Yeah, in a few," she replies, taking a quick glance at her watch. According to her cheeky favour from Noel checking the rota of the consultants today, Dylan's due for a break sometime around now. After hearing about the drama on her period of leave, Connie's been pushing him to take all of his breaks, which has led to him spending a lot of time on the bench outside the E.D, as far as Sam's been able to see.

"Got something to do?" Iain asks, curious. "In the E.D?"

"Yeah, something like that," Sam replies, not really listening to Iain's question. "See you in a bit. Make sure you make mine a double – I'll need it!"

* * *

…

She spots him almost immediately as she approaches the outside of the Emergency Department, though it takes her almost five minutes to build her courage to approach him. Chomping on a sandwich and staring into space, Sam's surprised that he hasn't noticed her – unless he has, of course, and has chosen to not acknowledge her. Dylan, apparently, is a master of hiding things, especially from her.

Finally sucking in enough air to convince herself that this is a good idea, Sam takes her hands out of her pockets and walks towards Dylan, one hand surreptitiously reaching up to smooth the mess of her hair down.

"Hey," she says, feeling more than slightly awkward as she stands above Dylan.

He doesn't look up, and this time she can tell that it's deliberate.

"Mind if I sit down?" Sam presses, gesturing towards the empty half of the bench next to him.

It's at this point that Dylan looks up, almost as if he didn't hear her before. Shrugging slightly, he picks up his empty sandwich packet from the bench and places it on his lap, a non-verbal invitation to take a seat.

Breathing once, then twice, Sam sits, setting her hands on her knees as she waits to see whether Dylan is going to start the conversation. Unlikely, she knows, but she might as well give him the chance to open this discussion whilst she puts her own thoughts in order.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't say anything.

"Dylan," Sam begins, causing her ex-husband to snort.

"Yes, that's my name," is his overly flippant response. It's as if he wants her to leave – which he probably does.

"I know that," Sam presses, taking a deep breath. He's going to press all of her buttons, that's what he always does. She needs to persevere, if she wants this conversation to go anywhere. "I just came to see how you're getting on."

"You mean to see if I've been drinking again?" He replies immediately, looking up and making eye contact with her for the first time. There's a flash of anger in his eyes, along with something that looks suspiciously like…shame?

"In part, yes," she admits. "Or…no, I mean…I wanted to make sure that you were doing alright. With keeping it under control, I mean."

"Sober for a grand total of forty-three days now, so I think I've got it under control," Dylan says, his tone infused with sarcasm. "As long as there aren't any more Sudanese refugees stowed away on my houseboat any time soon, I'm pretty sure that I can make it another few years."

There's an invitation to ask about Sanosi – at least that's what she thinks the boy's name was – and thereby take the conversation pressure off of Dylan, and Sam's tempted to take it for a short reprieve. But she doesn't, apparently wanting to be masochistic to herself, too.

But she doesn't quite know what to say. She doesn't know how to ask him anything without making it about her, about her side of the role they both played in ending their marriage and creating such animosity in the period afterwards.

"I never stopped caring, you know?" Sam just blurts out, deciding to go on instinct rather than any poorly pre-planned conversation starters. "I didn't just wake up and decide that I didn't care about you anymore, Dylan. I've always cared about you; I've never known if I was meant to or not. But I did."

"You clearly cared a lot in Afghanistan," is all he says, and Sam can feel her heart sink. She didn't want the first time that they talked about… _everything_ to be now. Or maybe she did.

"I…" is all she gets out before Dylan continues, making eye contact with her once again.

"Look, Sam, it was all a long time ago," he presses, the anger faded and instead replaced with a sort of…acceptance? Once, she could read every change in emotion before he probably even registered it; now, it's almost as if he's a stranger. Which he sort of is. "You moved on. I moved on. I don't care about what happened back then. But you have to admit, there's a hint of hypocrisy – or is it irony? – in you saying that you've always cared."

Nodding slightly, Sam bites her lip, resisting the urge to reach out and cover his hand with hers. That'd just make things a hundred times worse.

"I buried it deep at times, yes, but I always cared," Sam retorts, breaking eye contact and instead shifting her focus to the sky. "Despite my best intentions or probably what was best for me, I have cared. And I care now. I want to be there to help you, Dylan. I don't care what role that is."

"I don't need someone to help me," Dylan immediately says, shifting his coffee cup into the hand closest to Sam. probably pre-empting a move that she herself has already considered. "I've gotten here on my own, Sam. I needed you before, when we…when I thought that you'd be by my side. I can do it by myself. I can." He repeats the last line, and Sam has an inkling that this is how he gets through his days: reminding himself that he's strong enough to do it by himself.

Which he is. He has to be, to have reached this stage. To have survived all of the heartbreak and tragedy and loss in his life.

He doesn't need her. Just as she doesn't need him. But, sometimes, it's nice to have a friend – someone who knows more about you than you care to admit.

"I know you don't need me," Sam agrees, looking back towards Dylan. He's steadfastly staring at his coffee, which doesn't surprise her. He's never been good at eye contact when talking about emotions. "You've never needed me. But I'm here to be a support. To help you do it all by yourself. If you want me to be, that is. I won't keep pestering you." She takes a deep breath, and decides to rip the plaster off of the wound that's festered since before she left him. "I'm sorry that I stopped being there for you. But I'd like to be there for you _now_."

She's met with silence, which she anticipated, but she perseveres, waiting for some form of response from him.

"I suppose…" Dylan finally begins, and she has to resist the urge to punch the air. "I suppose that I could sometimes do with someone to walk Dervla with me."

"Sounds great," Sam immediately replies.

"Someone to walk Dervla in _silence_ with me," Dylan presses. "Other owners at the dog park always feel the need to start conversations with me when I'm alone. Your presence will alleviate that, I'm sure."

Sam laughs. "Silent walks sound great. Maybe even a coffee afterwards?"

"I should get back," is Dylan's response as he stands up without a glance in Sam's direction.

"So that's a yes to the occasional coffee?" Sam teases.

He turns around and, for what feels like the first time in forever, she can see a hint of a smile on Dylan Keogh's lips.

"Maybe," he acknowledges. "Goodbye, Sam."

* * *

…

 _I never stopped caring about you_ is the thought that swims around Sam's mind as she swings her legs into bed. Because it's true. Through it all, she never stopped caring, even when she _thought_ she had stopped loving him.

But, as sleep takes her into its sweet caress, she doesn't dream of Dylan Keogh. Instead, she dreams of nothing, serene at last.

* * *

Not entirely sure what this is, but please let me know what you think of it - and if you have any requests for future fics!


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